Chapter 2 #3
Eventually, Grant sets up the box he’d been carrying earlier when he came into the kitchen, which turns out to be an old record player he’d found under his guest bed.
Old timey Christmas carols play as the soundtrack to the movie.
He then takes over the ladder to string lights across the crown molding around the living room with a precision that would make an engineer proud.
His hands are sure and practiced, his brow furrowed just enough to make him look even more serious than usual.
Dean insists on handling the rest of the ornaments, turning each one into a grand ceremony while hooking them onto the branches.
“Ah yes, the sacred ceramic snowman. Circa two-thousand-and-eight, survivor of at least four tree collapses from what I hear. Oh! And here is the straight-out-of-the-cereal-box ice skater circa two-thousand-and-two. The only one of its kind and courtesy of a Kellongs’ campaign gone rogue. ”
I nearly drop a handful of tinsel from laughing too hard.
Meanwhile, Cal stays near me on the floor, untangling the rest of the string lights with the same calm patience he’s had all evening.
His hands are deft and steady, refusing to rush the process.
Every so often, he passes me a cleared section to hand over to Grant, his fingers brushing mine just briefly before retreating again.
The more we work, the more natural this all feels.
The house, once too still and empty when I arrived, begins to fill with the sounds of life and laughter bouncing off the walls.
The fire crackles in the hearth, its glow casting everything in shades of gold and amber.
By the time we’re done, the living room looks transformed.
Garlands hang from the banisters, lights twinkle across the ceiling beams, and the tree, slightly crooked but beautiful, is draped in childhood memories.
I stand back, taking it all in.
For the first time since I left, this house feels alive again.
I can almost picture Dad walking in, his eyes widening at the sight of it all, his tired expression breaking into that quiet, proud smile he always tries to hide whenever he’s overwhelmed with emotions.
The men have gone quiet beside me, their words softening into a kind of silent, collective satisfaction.
Even Dean, who’s been narrating everything like a sportscaster, falls still. We all just stand there for a breath, admiring the work.
“He’s going to love it,” I murmur.
“Where’s the wine?” Dean asks. “We should celebrate.”
I’m already up and moving before he finishes the sentence.
Right as I’m crossing the threshold into the dining room to retrieve the bottle, a gasp startles me.
I turn automatically and nearly collide with Dean. We stop just short of each other, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
My breath hitches, my body reacting before my brain can catch up. I stumble half a step back on instinct, only for his arm to shoot out and catch me around the waist.
“Whoa there. Didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart.” His arm loops more firmly around me, steadying me.
“You didn’t,” I lie.
Dean’s smile widens like he doesn’t believe a word of it. His eyes flick upward, scanning something above my head, then his grin morphs into one that looks almost diabolical.
“Uh-oh,” he murmurs. “Would you look at that?”
I follow his gaze and immediately feel my stomach drop. Dangling crookedly from the archway above us is a sprig of mistletoe taped there half an hour ago when I was running around decorating, apparently without thinking through the consequences.
“Oh, no…” I breathe, heat creeping up the back of my neck.
Dean’s gaze drops back to me. The playfulness in his eyes darkens, turning into something more electric. “Well, well… What have we here?”
Grant’s voice cuts across the room. “Don’t you dare.”
Dean tilts his head toward him, feigning innocence, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. “What? It’s tradition.”
“Tradition is optional,” Callum shoots back.
“Guess it depends who you ask,” Dean replies.
Oh, god. If he actually kisses me, I might really give in to the impulses choking me.
I should move. I should say something—anything—to defuse the situation, but my thoughts have gone completely silent.
My brain can’t seem to compute anything past the way my heart is crashing against my ribs.
Dean chuckles at me. “It’s just mistletoe, Noelle. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, glaring at him, but it only makes Dean laugh harder.
He steps closer, practically crowding me against the side of the doorway, his grin softening into something almost charming. “C’mon… you’re not really gonna make me break a sacred Christmas rule, are you?”
He’s enjoying this far too much, I can tell.
The confidence, the easy-going attitude, the spark of mischief that simmers right beneath the surface.
It’s infuriating and magnetic all at once, and being this close to him is more than I can handle right now without doing something completely stupid like letting my impulses take over.
His cologne drifts between us, making my head dizzy.
I try not to breathe in too deeply because drowning in this man’s scent is the exact last thing I should be doing right now.
The deep blue of his eyes catch every flicker of firelight. There’s humor in them, yes, but there’s also something that feels like curiosity…or maybe suspicion.
Like he’s looking past my words, and the polite smiles I’ve been throwing his way since he arrived, and straight down to the part of me that’s been trying to stay completely unattached from all three of them since they arrived.
For one reckless second, I can’t look away.
“You’re impossible,” I mumble, because it’s the only thing that doesn’t sound like I might kiss you if you don’t stop looking at me like that.
Dean leans in slightly, close enough that I can see the faint line of stubble along his jawline.
My fingers twitch at my sides, the urge to trace it rising like a tide.
I fist my fingers together, nails digging into my palms just to keep from reaching out and grabbing at him like I desperately want to.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he murmurs.
My pulse stutters, tripping over itself. “Noticed what?”
A corner of his mouth tilts upward. That familiar, dangerous grin slides back into place, and it feels like both a warning and an invitation.
His eyes glint in the warm lighting. “The way you’ve been eyeing us up and down all night.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
Us.
Not just him. Us.
How the hell did he know that?
Have I really been that transparent? I thought I’d been careful keeping my gaze elsewhere, maintaining a polite distance and pretending that the tension in the room wasn’t slowly pulling me apart from the inside out.
But maybe that’s what gave me away.
Maybe my restraint had become its own kind of confession.
“What?” It comes out softer than I intend, more breath than voice, shaky enough that it betrays me instantly.
“You heard me.” His voice drops to a whisper, brushing soft and warm against my face, close enough that I can feel the faint tickle of his breath on my lips.
The playfulness is still there, but it’s threaded with something else now. Something I’m too afraid to name. “Every time you thought no one was looking, I was. Admit it, Noelle. No one’s going to hold it against you.”
My mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
The words I should say: you’re wrong, you’re imagining things, I wasn’t, don’t say any of that die on my tongue before they even cross over my tongue.
All I can feel now is the rush of blood in my veins, the thrum of my heartbeat pounding against my ribs.
The warmth pooling low in my stomach is dizzying, nearly unbearable. My skin feels too tight, too hot, like my own body’s trying to split itself wide open.
His eyes track it, slow and unhurried, the corner of his mouth curving like he’s watching something unfold exactly the way he predicted.
I shake my head, forcing the smallest laugh, my voice barely above a whisper. “You’re imagining things.”
His eyes drop briefly to my lips before finding mine again. “Prove it.”
The challenge hangs in the air.
Every instinct screams at me to move—to step back and break the tension before it morphs into something I can’t take back. But my body won’t listen.
My feet stay rooted to the floor, like they’ve forgotten how to move.
My pulse pounds at the base of my throat, loud enough to drown out every rational thought.
Some traitorous part of me wants to see what he’ll do next. Whatever he’s planning, whatever line he’s thinking about crossing, I can already feel myself leaning toward it.
The rest of the world seems to fade, leaving just him and the weight of his stare, the tension pulling taut between us.
“Dean.” Grant’s voice slices through the air, snapping us out of the moment. “Back off. You’re making her uncomfortable.”
While quiet, the words are firm, carrying the kind of authority that doesn’t need to be shouted to be heard.
Dean straightens almost immediately and lets me go, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he steps back a few paces to give me room to breathe again. “Wasn’t trying to. I was just playing around.”
The apology sounds half-hearted, but at least it’s something.
No one says anything for a long moment.
The only sounds are the faint crackle of the fire and the low hum of Christmas music drifting from the record player.
It’s almost cruel how normal it all feels when my pulse is still skipping erratically from everything that almost happened or maybe from how abruptly it all stopped.
I swallow hard, trying to steady myself, but my hands still tremble slightly.
Grant’s eyes flick to me then, the sharpness in them softening as he takes me in. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I manage after a beat, nodding slowly. “I’m fine.”
Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry, sweetheart. Got a little carried away.”
I flex my fingers at my sides, grounding myself in the sting of my nails against my palms, because every nerve in my body is screaming at me to do something stupid like reach out, close the distance, and finish what he started.
Because the truth is…part of me wants to. What would stop us from actually going through with it?
I want to know what it would feel like to give in to that look in his eyes.
The one that makes my stomach twist and my heart forget its rhythm.
I want to know if the heat simmering under my skin would taste the way it feels.
Realistically, what would really stop me?
Dad’s gone for the night.
The snow outside’s still falling, muffling the world beyond the front door.
It’s just me and three men who used to be names I heard in stories as a kid who now exist here, real and solid and far too close for comfort.
God, what am I even thinking?
When I glance back at Dean, he’s still watching me. His expression has softened, maybe even turned a little regretful, but the spark in his eyes hasn’t gone anywhere.
It lingers, flickering like a flame that refuses to die no matter how much air you steal from it.
I don’t know what possesses me to speak—some reckless cocktail of adrenaline and curiosity, or maybe just the way his gaze makes my thighs press together hard enough to feel a jolt of pleasure rocket through my core.
Either way, the words slip out before I can stop them, before my brain even catches up to my mouth.
“I mean, it is tradition.” I swallow around the lump in my throat, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly.
For a split second, confusion crosses his face.
Then realization dawns, and I see it, the exact moment he understands what I mean.
His eyes widen slightly, that dangerous spark flaring back to life and burning hotter now.
“Noelle…”
Somewhere off to the side, Grant’s voice cuts in again, rougher this time. “Don’t encourage him.”
I ignore him because the room has gone still again, thick with unspoken tension neither of us dares to name.
The world outside could have disappeared for all I care.
The only thing that exists now is the heat crawling over my skin and between the few inches separating us.
“Careful. You might be starting something you can’t get out of,” Dean says as he steps closer, each word a slow drawl that sends a shiver down my spine.
I should laugh it off. Step away, pretend it’s just a joke, but instead I find myself whispering back, “Maybe I don’t want to.”
His breath catches in a small, sharp hitch that feels louder than any scream.
Grant says my name again, sharper this time, a warning laced in steel, but his voice sounds distant and muted like it’s coming from somewhere far away.
Right now, Dean’s the only thing I can focus on.
The only thing I can feel.
His hand rises, fingers brushing along my jaw before settling there. His palm is warm, calloused just enough to make me shiver when his thumb traces the edge of my cheek.
The gesture is careful, almost reverent, and yet the look in his eyes says, Don’t think for a second I won’t ruin you with this.
His mouth crashes against mine without warning.
It’s a shock at first, a collision of our breath and the heat from our lips, laced with something too wild to name.
Oh, god.
Oh god, it’s hot as hell.
His lips are firm and demanding, and when he tilts his head just slightly, deepening the kiss, the air around us ignites.
The taste of him is dizzying, a smokiness to the alcohol he’d been drinking only a few minutes ago mixed with something sharp that’s entirely him.
My hands find his chest before I can think, fingers curling into the fabric of his button up because I need something solid to hold on to.
He groans softly against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me until I feel it everywhere.
His thumb strokes over my skin again, gentler now, in stark contrast to the way his lips part mine with the sweep of his tongue.
Heat flares under my skin, spreading fast, and every thought I’ve ever had about playing it safe goes up in flames.
This isn’t teasing anymore.
This isn’t a game.
Whatever this is, whatever line we just crossed, there’s no pretending anymore.